The aubergine tint in the coital smell of lightly mussed linens; the mauve in sensual leather and vanilla musk; the clitoral wetness in petrichor and Dolce&Gabbana light blue: these smells show tangled sounds in human paint at bed ‘n’ breakfast noon.

Billows of cashmere drape over a window sill seat: it’s upholstered in a syrupy-thick, plush material. I run my fingers over the burnished gold fuzz, leaving an ocean of soft, smoky ripples in the cloth. Every secret touch leaves a ghost here by the large beach facing window.

All around, on hard surfaces, fairy lights (held up by the sorcery of copper wire) spin their infinitesimal, glittering turbines in the indoor twilight. Long, dripping, cylindrical wax candles marry short rotund tealights in the dark.

I recline on the decadent sill seat, taking in surroundings that are frosted with a thick meringue of visual cholesterol. Egg whites tip ombre flames of cinnamon and auburn in the fireplace. I listen to the perfumed apple tree firewood pop and whizz.

On the cedar table there are: matching flutes of champagne; a crystal tumbler of seven year old cherry wine wrapped in a filmy red g-string; a heart shaped box of whiskey infused German chocolates, with several chocolates bitten and painted in dark semicircles of lipstick; and two large, deep China plates filled with Cajun spiced lobster and chicken pasta.

Steam rises from the plates; the food was just taken off of the stove top. My best friend sets the table. She lights a birthday sparkler and puts it in my pasta. I rise from my repose, running a hand over my satiny, negligee-like cocktail dress.

Who would’ve thought that a year into being a newly minted divorcée, I’d be having the most romantic dinner of my life? I stand barefoot, looking at my best friend of years with my moist, stinging eyes.

Her gentleness (and sensuality and eroticism) is overwhelming on this day that would’ve swallowed me alive: Valentines day; a day that is simultaneously my birthday, the anniversary of my wedding day, and the day before the day my husband filed for divorce. So yeah, today should suck.

“Are you ready to get smashed while we watch Gilmore Girls, or what?” Riesling says, holding my glittering, birthday plate of pasta.